“Sir… I think I can help.”

Everyone turned. There, standing in the aisle, was a Black teenager no older than sixteen, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. Simple clothes, scuffed shoes. Yet in his eyes shone a strange, almost disarming confidence.

“My name’s Malik,” he said gently. “I’ve raised my little sister. I know what it’s like… let me try.”

Henry froze. Hand his baby to a stranger? The idea seemed insane. But the cries tore at his soul like knives, and he nodded.

Malik stepped forward, cradling the child with unexpected tenderness.